Preparing for Future Madness

WARNING: THIS WAS WRITTEN AFTER ONLY A FEW HOURS SLEEP SO IT MAY NOT MAKE A HILL OF BEANS OF SENSE TO ANYONE BUT ME.

Now that we four kids have the legal right to look after our mother and are no longer at the mercy of her husband, we find ourselves exhaling for what feels like the first time in two years. And, we laugh. We laugh because the absurdity of these most recent months is comic now that the shock and fear and urgency to act are no longer crushing the breath out of us. We laugh because stress and anxiety and tension and uncertainty all demand a release and laughter is better than hysteria. And, to be honest, we cannot always tell the difference. But, mostly we laugh because we are scared, scared of what comes next for Mom and for us.

Our mother was sixteen when she started having children and while we are sure dementia was setting in two years ago, it could have been as early as three. So, if you do the math, the oldest of her kids could be facing dementia in as few as thirteen years. THIRTEEN YEARS! Do not be buffaloed by that “it skips a generation” baloney either because Mom’s mother also suffered from dementia and developed Alzheimer's.

What will my three sons do if I get dementia at 64 or 65?

Scary stuff. Not as scary as my nightmare about waking up in a coffin but still scary stuff.

We have no idea which of Mom's kids, if any, might develop vascular dementia or Alzheimer’s. Maybe all of us. Maybe none of us. Maybe only the girls. Maybe my brother since he is the oldest.

Blueberries. We need to eat more blueberries.

But . . . what if I do start hiding my rolls of toilet paper all over the house? What if I begin to think my grown kids are coming to the house and stealing my shoes? And, what if the voices in my head and the shadows in my vision become my reality?

We all need to talk about things as we get older but with the threat of memory loss hanging over heads, it is imperative to:

1. Talk to our families and tell them what we want. Nursing homes, assisted living centers, retirement centers, independent living, castle in the back yard with a bat-pole, etc
2. Look into life insurance and burial plans. I want to be buried with a live cell phone that has a portable hot spot. You know, just in case that coffin nightmare is a premonition.
3. Make sure our family has photocopies of our drivers' license, social security, and insurance cards in cases of emergency. Thank goodness I copied my mother's ID and insurance cards two years ago because her husband has still not turned them over to us. 
4. Once we tell everyone where we want to live, how are we going to pay for it? Do we have IRA's and retirement funds that will pay for it? My kids need to thank their grandmother because up until we daughters had to find a way for her to live on $1800 per month, I thought I would just blow through all our money and if there was no money to pay for my care when I was finger painting with my own poop, who cares? It's not like I would know the difference. 
5. Consider long-term care insurance to cover the cost of private care (memory care is expensive) and our own income/savings/social security/medicaid may not cover it and I do NOT want to live in my son's converted garage especially since he may forget it's a converted garage and park his Honda in front of my giant flat screen and I do not have a lot of faith that any of them will build me that castle in the back yard. Or the bat-pole.
6. Execute a Last Will and Testament and make sure our kids and spouses know where the executed document is and what it contains. I'm not doing one of those surprise readings like in television where the attorney announces who gets the Rolls Royce and who gets the Bentley. My three sons will all know ahead of time that what's left of my estate will be split 80/10/10 depending on which kid sucked up to me the most during my lucid years. Or a sack race. I have not decided yet.
7. Do we want to include a declaration of guardianship in the Will should it become necessary later? I may need to keep this part a secret from my sons. None of them may want to take on this daunting responsibility.
8. Do we want a Living Will that discusses choices we want made on our behalf should we be unable to make them or will those decisions be left up to our families? Yes, because I want to be an organ donor but only if after THREE DAYS there is no answer on that cell phone.
9. Execute medical and durable powers of attorney so our kids can make us go to the doctor when we start going to the mailbox in our birthday suits.
10. Find a safe accessible place (safe deposit box, fireproof file cabinet) for all critical documents like insurance policies, our Will , powers of attorney, and records our family will need in the event of our incapacitation or death because, otherwise, we will hide these documents in hat boxes and refrigerator drawers and hey, that's not a half bad idea because if the attorney is reading a Last Will and Testament that's been in a drawer full of onions, everyone in the room will be crying and I'll look very popular.
11. Talk to an attorney about our specific financial situation to see if there are other business issues we need to resolve because we, ourselves, are not attorneys. Well, unless we talk to my nephew who actually is an attorney.
12. Get regular check-ups and be receptive to preventive care and treatments. (Missy, this means you really should consider getting one of those V-Steams with me. . .)

And that's about all we can do.

And eat blueberries.

One day, my mother wanted to know why I stole the gold flatware that her friend had given her to hide until she needed to use it to fund her escape from Afghanistan. As a writer, I make up stories. But I sure hope, hope, hope that if I lose my wits and live in my imagination, it's a world of dragons and fairies and pirate ships and mermaids, NOT wars in Afghanistan.

The Madness Equation

Congratulations, it’s a bouncing senior citizen. The judge did not even bang his gavel as he solemnly awarded guardianship of my mother to “Team Sybil”, her squad of four adult kids who had sought champions for two years in this battle against mental illness until we realized we had to don the capes and tights ourselves.

Today, the children of madness became the parents of madness. Now, we can legally work as the super-hero team we had to become to make sure our mother’s physical and psychological and psychiatric needs were met. We’re her guardians, her watchmen, her protectors. She will now see the doctors she needs to see, get the medication she needs to get, live in a safe place, and be supervised by people trained to care for her.

This is HUGE!

In our case, we not only had to find a way to get psychiatric help for our aging mother but we had her abusive spouse to contend with, a man who legally had the ability to make choices on our mother’s behalf but who we believe is dealing with his own mental illness and suffering dementia on top of his underlying personality disorder.

So... we had Mom,  mentally ill with we don’t know what - narcissism, borderline personality disorder, histrionic behavior and maybe some schizophrenia -  and then suffering from dementia on top of her underlying illness, who married a man who is so Jekyll and Hyde that he seems to have a dissociative identity disorder and sociopathic tendencies but is also now dealing with some age-related dementia of his own.

When madness marries madness, it is NOT madness times two. The ripple effects on friends, family, co-workers, neighbors, doctors, law enforcement, government agencies, the court system and every person this pair interacts with is madness squared. SQUARED!

In another post, I’ll talk about the abuse we endured at the hands of both of these people, the altered reality they lived in, the threats, the accusations, the intimidation and how Mom's husband has been so obsessed with her back taxes (which is a non-issue because we've had IRS auto-drafted from her checking account monthly for over years now) that every doctor, police officer, banker, and mailman that crosses this guy's path hears about his tax woes.

But all of that is for another day.

With this court ruling, we’ve changed the madness squared equation. Now, when our mother wanders out the door naked, it will be into a hallway, not onto a sidewalk. She is not in danger of being hit by a car or even hit in the face by the husband who cannot understand why she is an often childlike, confused and unreasonable little-old-woman version of the strong, argumentative woman he married six years ago.

Guardianship awarded. Physical abuse proven. Visitation by the husband denied.

As the attorneys all side-bar’d at the judge’s bench, our mother’s husband shot us a glance of combined bewilderment and rage. How had he, a scientist and the smartest man in every room, lost to three such ignorant women and their idiot brother? Even the court reporter shivered when the attorneys turned toward him and his “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too” face astonishingly morphed into a victimized old man, tragic and court-weary, longing only to visit his beloved wife whom he never once bothered to ask about in the six weeks since she’d been in supervised care. Never a “how’s she doing?” or “is her room nice?” or “are the new medications helping?” or “does she need anything?” Nope. Nothing but a bombardment of the same Jekyll and Hyde emails we had gotten for months, complaining about Mom's back taxes and threatening to sue us for assault one moment (apparently, if you come to the house to give your mother her medicine or drive her to the doctor, that is assault) and Mr. Nice Guy the next (begging us to stop these unnecessary assaults and still complaining about taxes).

But. we’re tuckered out little super-heros with tattered capes and runs in our tights and our heads ache from our crash course in justice from the real-life Justice League of attorneys, judges, and agencies in this state. We now know that  we can, indeed, leap tall buildings, but not in a single bound and never faster than a speeding bullet.

When it comes to mental illness, the solutions are complex and when we fail as a society, we fail big. People get hurt. People suffer. People die. Why, oh why, oh why? Because protecting a person from himself and protecting the public from a potentially dangerous person sounds elementary on paper and even less complicated in comic books and movies but the reality of our obligation to NOT rob a person of his rights, be unjustly invasive, or cross moral and legal and ethical lines with regard to a person’s liberties is an olympian sized conundrum when it comes to our ability to address mental illness at all.

It’s not as simple as identify it, cope with, treat it, and regulate it.

You see, madness is not against the law and people have a right to NOT get treatment.

That’s right. People have a right to be crazy. Period. If they aren’t a PROVEN danger to themselves or others, their odd behavior and subtle threats are “harmless”.  And that burden of proof is great.

For example, if your mother’s 73-year-old husband says he is going to “make you pay” and mentions he has 65 guns and could “resolve this another way”, it doesn’t matter if he is a red-faced volcano squalling in your face and clenching his fists, those words were not, by law, a direct bodily threat because he did not say “I will shoot you” or “I will kill you”.  You have to wait for that volcano to erupt.

- - - Like when he goes to your sister's house uninvited and punches her husband in the face. - - -

Yeah. THEN people believe you.

Talk about madness!

Today, I found great comfort in the Bible verse where Jesus says it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a person to force somebody with a mental defect to get psychiatric help.

Except for the part about THAT’s NOT WHAT IT SAYS! And, my own cheese must have slid off own my cracker if I’m re-writing the Bible (and plagiarizing Stephen King) to justify the maze of agencies, cries for help, phone calls, doctor visits, and complexities of the legal system that we have maneuvered, hurdled, and trudged through.

And, I was only kidding. We had no capes.

But it’s true. You cannot force somebody to go get help. You cannot make them. You can’t. They have rights. So the conundrum is, if someone is really functioning in a diminished capacity and refusing to get treatment -

they are not capable of making decisions about their own safety and welfare but they have every right to make decisions about their own safety and welfare. 

Our guardianship hearing is only part ONE of the battle our team of super-heroes faces. Because, you see, our mother’s husband is still out there, bombarding us with emails where he has translated things we've said in the real world into the language of his fractured world and then spit those words back out at us in a venomous rant of victimization.

Heaven help us.

Guardianship means nothing to my mother's husband. Her business is his business and he cannot let go. He's making phone calls he is not allowed to make, writing letters he is not allowed to write, and is even showing up places he is not allowed to show up due to protective orders against him. And, even though he has proven himself mentally and emotionally unstable and even though he has proven himself violent to my mother and to her four kids, it's not legally a threat when he says to us if we get in his business, "I WILL STOP YOU".

The madness continues.

Mother's Day Madness

Okay, campers, rise and shine, and don't forget your booties 'cause it's cooooold out there today.

Holidays, when we were growing up, always ended the same way; with my mother sulking, yelling, or crying about how much we did not love her. It was like watching Groundhog Day only each of us four kids was Bill Murray witnessing the same manic depressive day over and over. Easter and Christmas were tense enough but Mother’s Day? That was the single most dreaded day of the year because nothing we did could prevent our mother’s tormented scene about what wretched kids we were.

And, we believed her.

Mother’s Day is the holy of holies for Moms; the day kids stop and make sure their mothers know they are loved and appreciated. For us, it was the day we always committed the ultimate affront to motherhood with our crude homemade gifts, sub-standard breakfasts in bed, lame handpicked flowers, and puny shows of affection. It did not  “come from your heart” was her angry complaint when she rejected our gifts. Year after year, we tried to come up with a new way to prove our love for our mother on this sacred day and year after year we got slammed doors, artwork in the trash, and home baked treats that went uneaten.

I know, right. That's cold.

In our teen years, my siblings and I started buying gifts with what little money we managed to earn babysitting or mowing lawns or selling lemonade. We graduated to stealing money and shoplifting  necklaces for her but they still “did not come from your heart”.

Eventually, all gifts sat unopened.

It was a Mother’s Day that made me decide to move away from home my senior year in high school. Mom had already kicked one brother and one sister out of the house. There was nobody left but me and my second grade little sister. I managed to save some money and borrow the rest from my ex-stepfather who took me shopping to buy my mother a pair of jeans and blouse for Mother’s Day but it resulted in her beating me on the head with the box and screaming that it didn’t come from my heart. The next morning, she had another tantrum, slapped me, pulled my hair, and accused me of plotting against her. Unable to cope with the madness any more, I left to live with a friend. After graduation, I went to San Antonio to visit family including the sister my mother had kicked out earlier in the year and surprise! She was wearing the jeans and shirt I had bought my Mom for Mother’s Day. My mother had mailed them to her as a birthday gift.

Uh. Huh. I know. Colder than the trash, even! But that became a pattern with Mom. Re-gifting our gifts to our siblings. Over the years, we started asking each other what to buy Mom since we knew she would give it to one us anyway.

Fast forward to today: Mother’s Day, 2014

We, the grown-up kids, are now petitioning the court for guardianship of our mother. Such is the severity of her mental illness and dementia. There have been years when we thought our mother had outgrown some of the paranoia, narcissism, and  erratic behavior of her early age. We have had some good times. We have had some not so good. We have had some awful. Now that she is 69 years old, time has eroded her filtering system and vascular dementia has set in. We’re seeing a lot of the same behavior we saw when we were teenagers and it’s Groundhog Day again.

But, not always.

My sisters and I went to see Mom today at the assisted living center and took one of her granddaughters. We brought her flowers and cupcakes for Mother’s Day. She was thrilled! She actually loved her Mother’s Day cupcakes and even ate three of them! Can you believe it? She had to get dementia to appreciate the thought behind a simple gesture. And who could blame her? The flowers were gorgeous and when we shared her cupcakes with the other senior adults, they remarked on how fortunate Mom was to have kids that come see her so often. This made Mom feel a little bit important. All in all, not such a bad Mother’s Day.

Until, it was time for us to leave and she said she hates the place and the food and the people and wants her cat and wants her own stuff and wants her own house and how she loves her cat more than her daughters . . .

Okay, campers, rise and shine, and don't forget your booties 'cause it's cooooold out there today.

Growing in the Dysfunction

Imagine you find a magic fountain or genie in a bottle or a Super Mario warp whistle or some other source of enchantment that would allow you to go back in time and then erase the worst moments in your life. You could simply banish that awkward moment, foolish error, or painful loss from your history so its vindictive shadow can never again make an ugly uninvited appearance in your memories. Poof! It's gone. What might you delete from your life so that it can no longer haunt you?

How about a big fat nothing? Cuz, seriously, imagine a butterfly effect in your life where you selfishly erase that horrible, embarrassing, awkward moment your junior year when your tampon leaked and you had to wrap your sweater around your waist like it was 1950 even though it was 110 degrees outside and even though erasing that moment in life would get you the best prom date in high school and the dream spouse of your life and a yacht and a pony and full time personal trainer and so many diamonds, you would sink to the bottom of your Olympic sized pool, it would also result in a tsunami that kills 30,000 people. Can you live with that? Would you let 30,000 people die so you can watch a shirtless pool boy named Mauricio glisten in the Miami sun?

But, I digress. Stay with me, though, I have a point in here somewhere.

Now, my question to you is, "do you like who you are?"

If you do, then you can throw away that genie in the bottle and walk away from that magic fountain because everything in your life - good, bad, odd, joyful, devastating - has made you who you are. Your passions, your goals, your likes, and your motives are all a composite of your journey in life. Remove the bad car wreck when you were sixteen and you remove that cautious driver at forty who now makes sure her teenager slows down on service roads.

Maybe there is no valid argument for accepting death, crime, and other tragedies as growing pains but for me, personally, I can say that if I could go back and remove the physical and mental abuse, neglect, embarrassments, fears, and life with a mother suffering from an un-diagnosed mental illness, I would not. I would have much preferred the Ozzie and Harriet life, but the dysfunction I suffered growing up has not stopped me from becoming a functional person and I think the reality today is that more and more families are so increasingly dysfunctional that I'm worried my third grade nephew's class schedule will say Math, Reading, Recess, Recovering from Addiction, Living with a Schizophrenic Parent, and Suicide Prevention.

There is no shame in the dysfunction I grew up with. It was not my fault.

I was sexually abused by not one, but BOTH of my grandfathers. I was a small child with one and not yet a teen when it began with the other. Victims of childhood sexual abuse are not responsible for what happened to them and even though it may take many victims a lifetime to accept it, the truth is that children are subject to the authority of adults and are not accountable for what adults do to them.

But WHY ONE EARTH would I say I would not go back and erase the madness?

Hang in there. I'm getting to that.

It's weird that while I despise the mention of the name of one grandfather, the harm the other one caused is kind of an unemotional memory because I was so young. I rarely discuss either one of them at all. But my memories of them have starkly contrasting emotions attached even though they both did nasty, unspeakable things to me.

With one grandfather, I remember pain and fear and shame and a tremendous sense of invasion and the need to protect my sisters from this monster. I remember telling my mother what he was doing and getting a curt "Oh, Mary" in her "just stop it" tone of voice and wondering why this was okay with her. I remember wanting to run away and to sleep forever because sleep was the only time the pain in my life went away.

Such is the memory of an almost teen.

With the other grandfather, the bad things that happened are kind of dream-like and far away because even though I remember it clearly, what I remember more vividly is him brushing my hair, giving me baths, reading me books, taking me to the five and dime store and making up the most ridiculous stories about the monkeys who lived in the traffic signals and railroad crossings. There was no fear. I felt nurtured and protected despite the ugly things happening to me.

Such is the memory of a small child.

Were they both monsters? Both just sick men? Both situations are messed up beyond decency. Both should never have happened. And if I could back and erase any of the unspeakable things that happened to me, I would not. Not one single awful, terrible, nasty, ugly, violent moment because I like who I am today.

They say survivors of childhood physical or sexual abuse can become abusers and that most sexual predators were once sexually abused as a child. Well, I say that while all poodles are dogs, MOST DOGS ARE NOT POODLES so to lump all childhood victims in the same pot is as ludicrous as saying rape victims will become rapists. And, more victims of childhood abuse become advocates than abusers.

Childhood sexual abuse is vile. Dysfunctional childhoods are a tragedy. Living with a parent who has a mental illness is nightmare. But we can grow through all this ugliness to become human beings that leave positive footsteps and prevent others from experiencing the lives we lived.

What living a dysfunctional life did  for me:

• Knowing what is like to not have food in the house has taught me care if people are fed.
• Knowing what it is like to be slapped and struck has driven me to fight for the physically abused.
• Being verbally abused, belittled, insulted, and made to feel small has taught me to treat people with kindness, compassion, respect and dignity.
• Being sexually abused as a child has made me a fierce advocate for children
• Feeling unimportant has taught me that everyone needs to know that they matter.
• Feeling helpless has instilled in me a passion for victims of all kinds
• Feeling afraid as a child has given me the courage to stand up for what I believe in as an adult

And, there's more. Much, much, more. But, this post is already too long. What has being a victim of dysfunction taught you?

There is actually ONE thing I'd like to go back and change. I have a fear of the sound of an automatic garage door opener. When I was a teenager, my sister and I shared a room above the garage and when that door went up, our room would shake and roar. That meant Mom was home from work and we were likely about to get screamed at, accused of something, cursed at and slapped for - oh, I dunno - not putting the vacuum cleaner away or forgetting to bring the mail in.

So, if I could change something, maybe it would be my irrational reaction to automatic garage door openers.

But, then, ten million acres of rain forest would probably die off somewhere so I guess it's just a good thing we converted our garage.

A Puff a Day Keeps Alzheimer's Away?

Have you seen the articles that discuss the pioneering research of Professor Gary Wenk out of Ohio State University that says smoking marijuana before the onset of degenerative brain conditions can prevent and slow down dementia and Alzheimer's? He even suggests that people who smoked marijuana regularly in their 20's and 30's and less likely to get dementia or Alzheimer's in their 60s and 70's

Sigh.

I do wish I believed him but his research appears to be based on a single premise: that chronic brain inflammation is the underlying cause of age-related dementia and that cannaboids in marijuana have the ability to halt the brain's inflammatory response.

Problem: dementia and Alzheimer's disease are not one-size-fits all.

The current prevailing medical opinion is that Alzheimer's is caused by a protein called amyloid-beta which forms a plaque in the brain that kills neurons and causes memory loss and cognitive problems Dr. Wenk's research also does not appear to take into account other types of dementia not related solely to inflammation like vascular dementia which can coexist with changes in the brain like Alzheimers. Vascular dementia is caused by mini-strokes that block the blood vessels. Then there's dementia with Lewy bodies where a protein called alpha-synuclein develops in the cortex of the brain. This is the same protein that also is present in Parkinson's. Okay, so we've got Alzheimers, vascular dementia, Lewy body dementia and then there's the trifecta of dementia where all three conditions co-exist and that's known as mixed dementia.

And, according to Dr. Wenk's research, the mutant proteins that cause Alzheimer's appear shortly after birth to which he says, "My research suggests that it is never too early, or too late, in life to begin using very low daily doses, i.e., one puff per day.”

Based on what we know about the vast differences in dementia and its causes, until we know more this statement is, in my non-medical opinion, false hope. The puff only affects the mutant proteins. How will it prevent mini-strokes? How will it prevent the formation of alpha-synuclein?

Maybe some day, science will isolate the offending factors in Alzheimer's, AIDS, Parkinsons, Multiple Sclerosis, and ALS and be able to use medical marijuana to prevent or retard the effects of these crippling conditions. If so, I'll stock up and even grow my own if I have to because with the extreme dementia my mother has and the Alzheimer's her mother had, I've got a humongous scarlet A on my forehead already and it is not the Nathaniel Hawthorne kind.

• Medical Marijuana May Prevent Alzheimer's Disease - February 19, 2014
• Alzheimer's Association - Vascular Dementia
• Berries for Brain Health 

The Wish Horse

Once in awhile, as a writer, I have the privilege of meeting a kindred spirit. Lisa Ford is one such spirit. Her latest film project, "The Wish Horse" hits me square in the forehead as the kids in the story live with a parent who has a mental illness. In this particular story, a 13-year-old boy has to look after his younger sister when their mother abandons them. And the horse? Well, believing it can grant wishes may be just what these kids need to help them cope.

My brother and sisters and I grew up with a parent with a mental illness. We knew something was different from other kids' lives but it took us awhile to figure out that it is just not normal for a mother to kick in a bedroom door in at 4:00 a.m. and accuse us of stealing her panties. We love our mom and we each tried in our own ways to earn her affection. I was the over-achiever. My sister would act out in attempts to get my mother's attention. My brother tried being her friend and confidante. But what we all had in common was how we retreated into our imaginations, our music, our books, and our dreams. This is why this film is so important to me.

Worried because it's a message film and it might be a downer? Lisa's last film, Prodigy, was a beautiful, poetic piece of work. Mental illness is rampant in parents of children I volunteer with and if we don't learn recognize it, nobody can help these kids.

According to Michele D. Sherman of Social Work Today, “More than five million children in the United States have a parent with a serious mental illness (SMI) such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or major depression.” Our hope is that the characters in our fictional story will resonate with audiences and start a conversation about this important issue. Lisa Ford

Consider helping Lisa Ford accomplish her goal and support "The Wish Horse" by clicking here.  Every donation amount will help bring this film to life and when you think about all the money we spend on Netflix and Red Box and the movie theater, $10 or $20 to bring a story like this to film sounds like a worthy use of our movie money.

Divine Madness

In 1980,  Mount St. Helens killed 57 people, the Kwangju uprising for democracy in South Korea took over 2200 lives,  the Soviet rocket, Vostek, exploded on the launch pad killing 50 people, and hurricane Allen killed 272 people and left hundreds of thousands homeless in the Caribbean and on the Texas coast. And, I'm barely scratching the surface here of the human tragedies that happened that year.

1980 was a mad, mad year.

In other 1980 news, the U.S. boycotted the Moscow Olympics, Ronald Reagan defeated Jimmy Carter, Norman Mailer won a Pulitzer, the Letterman Show debuted, and Iraqi president Saddam Hussein declared war on Iran. That was also the year Radio Caroline's Mi Amigo ship sank and the New York City Transit Workers Union went on strike.

Oh, the records and broken records, the entertainment and sports news, the politics, space exploration, the scandals, the disasters. It was a year of the weird, the sad, the miraculous and I'm forgetting something. . .

No. I am not.

That year, 1980, that mad, awful year, is the year John Lennon was murdered by a deranged fan.

Life is life. Each matters. Each person's value is precious beyond a price tag. But when John Lennon died, something changed within me. Sure, the sorrow was unspeakable but his death woke me up to something I had been asleep against. I suddenly saw something with adult eyes that my child eyes had missed.

I mentioned that John Lennon was killed by a deranged fan. Deranged. A deranged person caused irreparable harm to the person he supposedly loved most. How is that possible? To cause harm or even destroy somebody that means that much to you? But the person of John Lennon was destroyed and that wound was felt around the world, evidenced by the pain of people who never met the music icon, but grieved his loss like the dagger in the heart of humanity that it was.

Anyone who takes a life must be a monster, right? Or, is it possible that sick people -- mad people, insane people, people not right in the head, lunatics, call them what you want -- are capable of destroying people they care about?

Wow. This was profound. This was frightening and comforting at the same time because if it is true that mentally sick people are capable of intentionally hurting the ones they love the most, then maybe the verbal abuse and neglect my siblings and I were experiencing was not at the hands of a parent who hated us but was at the hands of a parent who was not well. Maybe, the mother who was supposed to provide for and protect us but, instead, harmed us and left us to our own devices . . . was sick?

Somehow the death of John Lennon, devastating as it was to us kids who had grown up Beatles fans, helped me come to terms with an environment that I might otherwise have succumbed to. For the first time, at age seventeen, I began to think my mother was not just rude to my friends, lacking in empathy, mean to us, angry at the world, and antisocial.

Something was wrong with her.